Housemaid
by frau-haile
Summary: Money buys things. Money buys wants. Money buys wishes. Money buys vanity. The Frenchman just didn't know what type of vanity he was paying for. Human AU, FrUK/France and England. Rated T for coarse language.


A/N: It's been *looks at calendar* woah let's not count anymore hehe

Aaaaanyway, hey guys. It's been long as a line in an infinite plane, hasn't it? This, uh, is just some trial thing that I recently had the idea of. *sweats nervously* I...uh...am gonna see if this idea clicks or something, then maybe I'm gonna write the next few chapters. Sounds great, yeah? I'm kinda new to the idea of writing a good fanfic, so guys, go easy on me o.o (easier than what you guys have since my failed Romeo and Juliet story. Sheesh. That, I'm still confused about; not gonna write on that for a long time). Anyways, here's this...idea thing. Enjoy guys. -F.H.

* * *

Some people just have problems that others, who have experiences and social classes different than them, do not understand. The proffessionally-dressed, sophisticated-looking man sitting at his dark, oval desk was one who had those problems. One chart-topping and successful businessman's thin eyebrows were now scrunched up together as he talked in important yet hushed tones to someone on the telephone, tapping a metal sign pen against a few urgent papers he had yet to sign. His shoulder length, almost womanly, silky blonde hair was tied up in a loose ponytail, exposing the gentle edges of his jawline and high cheekbones. Gentle, sky-coloured blue eyes, reduced to slits, were set downcast on his lap, while his thin, pinkish lips were turned down into a frown of concentration. He would have looked handsome if his face didn't carry such an expression of worry. The man, who had a leg crossed over the other, Francis Bonnefoy, the CEO of a chain of first-class restaurants, had reaped and was reaping the fruits of his toils; money. And, if belief of it was possible, that was his problem.

Francis had too much money in his hands. When I say too much money, I mean too much money. This lead him to let the banknotes slide away from his palms as soon as he got them, as to not add to the overflowing amounts deposited in several accounts. He spent it on things that were trivial and often not of use, he barely even needed, and one of them?

A huge as fuck mansion.

Francis Bonnefoy wasn't a stress-endured businessman; the chef-turned-CEO's company was doing very well and managed it's problems gracefully. But, with great power comes great responsibility, and this did not escape the Frenchman. Only his problem was personal, and rather stupid sounding, to be honest; a mansion he only spent his mornings, evenings, and Sundays in, was becoming rather...unkempt. Not to mention his home was huge; well, do I even need to articulate what a fucking mansion is. Large as fuck rooms, the largest as fuck being his own, expensive paintings and vases and chandeliers, shit only rich as a bitch people can afford, a god damned pool, _everything_. You would think he had a bunch of children and a wife running around playing tag in there, with a hundred and one maids to attend to every whim, but I'm afraid I would have to disappoint you. Francis, aside from having too little time, was a little skeptical with anyone else rather than him scurrying around the roof over his head. Francis was keen on doing everything on his own, and keeping it like that. And now with these notions and reasons, the mansion of French windows and French doors and French curves was now covered in a thin layer of dust, screaming needs of care and cleaning. And, having decided it was for the house's own good, Francis (after repeatedly sneezing at sunsparkles) finally submitted to getting a housemaid. One only, though; just to do the cleaning. His food and laundry? Let's say this Frenchman takes great care of himself and his clothing.

But, the problem was...he wanted one of the male sex. Specific reason? None. Dissatisfaction if otherwise? Yes. Not that he discriminated women, oh no; it was simply another trivial, meaningless thing he partly longed to have and partly didn't give a shit about. Thus was the Frenchman's current dilemma.

Now this rather shy and stupid-sounding man on the phone was telling him he couldn't, and that there were no males in line to be "househelp", and blah blah blah, he would have a hard time getting him one if ever, maybe he won't get him one at all, well, bullshit from Francis to man on the telephone. He firmly told the "assistant" he wanted a male househelp, and that was that. Personal name and company name given, he slammed the phone back into it's holder with a sigh of irritation.


End file.
